Scott often teases me that while I'm patient and sympathetic (to a fault sometimes) with animate things, whether they be people or animals or plants, I have little patience for inanimate objects. Maybe I take out my bottled up frustration with animate things on the inanimate objects in my life, who knows. But I do know that I can direct quite a bit of anger and resentment at things that don't breathe, or talk back, or have feelings--like my refrigerator, for instance.

This past weekend was perfect--beautiful, cloudless blue skies and temperatures in the 60s all weekend long. On Friday, as Scott and I flopped, semi-comatose, on the couch, trying valiantly to stay up later than usual (because it was, after all, Friday), we decided that we'd set Saturday aside as a day of no worrying about things we can't change, no talking about where to send T. for kindergarten, no thinking about health insurance benefits (or lack thereof) for this and that, or workload woes.

A student came to see me in my office the other day. She looked worn down and weary.

"I just want to go home," she told me, hanging her head. She is having fun in college, and making friends, but because we're nearing midterms, the stress levels are rising. Thoughts are turning to home--to the sanctuary and safety net it provides.

I have a friend who travels quite a bit. She’s married, with two kids. I called her once just as she was getting ready to head out on one of her three-day boondoggles. “Bummer,” I said. “You’re leaving on another trek?” She couldn’t agree less. She was thrilled. “Are you kidding? I need a couple of days away.”